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At first, I didn’t understand the frown that appeared between his brows, but then he let go of my hands and reached inside his pocket to slide out his phone.

I tried not to let his work deflate me. “Family business?”

“Yeah.” He put down the phone and grabbed my hands again, bringing them to his mouth to kiss my knuckles. “It’s going to be a busy next few days.”

“I’ll be right here.”

He stood. I could see his entire body hesitate. Sandro really didn’t want to leave me, but he had his job, and I had mine.

I got out of my seat and hugged him. “Please take care.”

He didn’t utter a word. But the kiss on the top of my head and the extra tight squeeze he gave me communicated everything.

Chapter

Seventeen

Bianca

Another five days went by and Sandro and I had fallen into a routine. I continued to sleep in his bedroom and finally got used to sleeping beside him. Sometimes, I would even roll into him, and he’d let me. I usually woke up before he did at six, so I could give him extra time to sleep. If I were honest with myself, it was because I was too conscious of his morning wood. Many times, I found myself with my leg thrown over him and he would be stiff as a board. I knew he couldn’t sleep. And he’d already been coming home early in the morning. Sandro needed his rest so he could be clear-headed as boss.

He didn’t wait for Jabbin’ Java to open anymore, not if he wanted to catch a few hours of sleep and sit down to have breakfast with me, but food from my brother’s café seemed to magically appear every morning. These little gestures were melting the last residual anger I felt for Sandro. I was still pissed at the situation, at Raffa’s edict. But I recognized the effort he was making to keep the balance. Besides, it almost felt like a courtship. Aside from the food, my full set of skin careproducts appeared in the bathroom one morning, including a basket of luxurious bath bombs and my favorite scented candles. I remembered Divina and me talking about the brand I used a few days ago.

Sandro and I didn’t have enough time for any meaningful conversations about the future, but we spent our few stolen moments reminiscing about the past. Unearthing our bond helped ease my acceptance of the situation and reminded me of who Sandro was to me. Our marriage was real to him but questions remained. I wasn’t sure how it was going to work. Would he stay as boss? Did he expect me to go on the run with him when he faked his death?

That evening, Miller arrived with a whole feast of fish and chips from Eamonn’s, my family’s Irish pub. After dinner with the guys, I retired to the theater to watch a series. There was no internet. No connection to the outside world. I tried my best to ignore the fact that I was still a prisoner in this house.

By this time, there were seven sunflower arrangements scattered in different rooms and they provided much needed shots of joy to lift my spirits.

Something woke me. I had fallen asleep across the love seat in the theater room. The projector was off. I didn’t even recall what I was watching.

There it was again. Voices.

My heart jackknifed in my chest. Friend or foe? Then I heard Sandro’s low baritone and my nerves calmed down.

I stuffed my feet in fluffy slippers and made my way to the front of the house, relieved that there was no blood on the floor. I wondered if I’d developed some sort of PTSD. It was quite an introduction to the Rossi crime family on my second night here.

The voices were Sticks, Sandro, and Tommy.

It was three a.m.

“Why are you still awake?” Sandro walked to me and gave me a brief kiss.

“I hoped to wait up for you. I fell asleep in the theater.” The acrid smell of smoke was all over him. He was wearing black as usual, but there were smudges above his stubble line.

“Why do you smell like a chimney?”

“Go to sleep, baby.” He gave me a nudge toward the stairs.

“No,” I said firmly. “What happened?”

Sticks and Tommy looked at each other. Sandro continued staring at me. Almost pleading with me to let it go.

“What. Happened?” I blew out a breath. “What burned down?”

Why even mince words?

“There was a fire at the club.”